My Life in Black and White (27 page)

“Why?”

“I just do,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell Heidi about boxing, or Tiny, or Theo. “Come on,” I said, forcing myself up from the bench.

Heidi shook her head. “I can’t run a mile.”

“Sure you can…. Remember seventh-grade gym? We all had to do it.”

“Not me. I faked my period.”

“Well,” I said, “now’s your chance to un-fake it. Come on.”

“I can’t.”

“Do you want to hear what happened to Taylor or not?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. You’re running with me…. Come on. We’ll go slow.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

And then, I swear to God, Heidi Engle and I ran a mile together.

“Why do girls
do
that?” Theo asked when I’d finished telling the story.

“Do what?” I threw a jab with my right hand. The blue bag swayed slightly, and Theo steadied it.

“Hate themselves. Hate each other.”

“Because,” I grunted, throwing a left cross. My shoulders were on fire, but I wasn’t stopping. “We’re gluttons”—
grunt
—“for punishment”—
grunt
—“and we’re”—
grunt
—“highly”—
grunt
—“competitive”—
grunt
.

“Nice,” Theo said. “Let me see some hook uppercuts.”

“Hook,” I grunted, throwing with my right. “Uppercut—”
grunt
. “Hook—”
grunt.
“Uppercut—”
grunt.

“Good … Remember to twist and snap on the hook…. My sister used to do that.”

“What?”
Grunt.

“Beat herself up all the time. Worry what other people thought about her.”

“Oh.” I stopped punching and looked at him. “I thought you meant the way she boxed.”

Theo shook his head. “She never boxed.”

“Isn’t it a family business? Weren’t you given, like, teeny little boxing gloves as babies?”

“No. My dad’s been an insurance adjuster all his life. He opened the gym after Becks died as … you know … something positive to focus on…. His therapist suggested it.”

“Is it working?”

“The gym or the therapy?”

“Both.”

Theo shrugged. “He has his days. Mostly he holds it together. My mom, though … she’s still a mess…. She was hospitalized last year, after it happened…. She couldn’t handle it.”

I nodded. “Ruthie told me…. I hope that’s okay.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not ashamed of it. I just wish it helped. Mostly she lies in bed all day, staring at the ceiling.”

“I’m familiar with that technique,” I said.

From the way Theo was looking at me, I could tell he was waiting for me to say more—to reveal something deep about myself. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain about Johnny Depp without sounding pathetic.

So instead, I blurted, “Are you worried about her?”

Theo hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Is that why you don’t want to go to college?” I asked, instantly regretting the question, knowing it was too personal.

Sure enough, Theo frowned.

“Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“No,” he said. “It’s just … that’s what my dad keeps saying. ‘You can’t put your life on hold because of your mother. You have to think about your future.’ … Like it’s that easy. I can’t even leave for school in the morning without her crying. Imagine what would happen if I left home for good? She’s already lost one kid.”

I shook my head, not knowing what to say.

“Anyway,” Theo said, raising both hands to his chin and throwing a hard jab at the bag, “my dad went ahead and did it … without even asking…. He filled out the common application and sent it to fifteen schools.”

“Oh my God,” I said softly.

“He told me today. After they were already in the mail.”

“Is that even legal?”

Theo shrugged, throwing another jab. “Who the fuck knows?”

“How are you dealing?”

“Dealing?” Theo laughed, but not like he thought it was funny. “Like
this
,” he said, throwing an even harder jab, then a cross. “I know it sounds whacked, but sometimes I picture anorexia as, you know, an animate object, and I just pound the shit out of it for an hour.”

“It doesn’t sound whacked.”

“No?”

I shook my head.

“Right now,” Theo grunted, throwing a hook uppercut, “I’m picturing my dad.”

I steadied the bag for him. “When I was in the hospital, I used to picture Taylor, Ryan, and Jarrod lined up against the wall while I threw darts at their faces. Now, when I’m boxing, I picture football players.”

“Good thing,” Theo grunted, “to picture.”

“I can’t believe those guys are blatantly texting around Taylor’s photo and laughing about what happened. That’s just … sick.”

Theo bounced on his toes, nodding. “It is.”

“Assholes,” I muttered.

“Yup.”

Theo dropped his hands and—out of nowhere—asked whether I’d forgiven Taylor yet. I told him she still wasn’t back in school and, because she was grounded, I couldn’t just show up at her house.

“Your point being…”

“My point being I want it to be face-to-face.”

Theo nodded. “Gotcha.”

“What—you don’t think I’ll do it? You don’t think I’m capable of forgiving her?”

“No,” Theo said, “I
know
you’re capable of forgiving her. You’re capable of anything.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Well…” he said, rubbing his chin slowly, like he was giving the matter thought. “You
are
Catwoman….”

“Yes, I am.”

“You
do
have some amazing powers….”

“Yes, I do,” I said, realizing as I said it that this conversation was taking a detour from the serious to the flirtatious.

And I didn’t exactly mind.

For the first time in weeks, my father was home for dinner. You could tell it was a big deal because my mother spritzed on the Shalimar, set the table in the dining room instead of the kitchen, and served up steak au poivre.

“Honey, this is fantastic,” my dad said.

My mother smiled, spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I’m glad you like it. It’s a new recipe.”

Because Ruthie wasn’t home for dinner—she was tied up in yet another band rehearsal—my father had no one to trade intellectual jousts with. As a result, the conversation ranged from such scintillating topics as grass-fed vs. corn-fed beef (grass-fed was better), the children’s choir at church (darling), and the weather (unseasonably warm).

Then, my father wiped his mouth on his napkin and turned to me. “Your mom told me about Taylor and the photographs that were posted on the Internet without her knowledge.”

“What?”
I stared at my mother.

Before she could open her mouth, my father was off and running. “Do her parents know…? Because if they don’t, somebody needs to inform them…. Voyeurism is a class D felony. Taylor may have a case.”

“Voyeurism?”

“Was she under the influence of alcohol?”

I nodded.

“Then she couldn’t give consent. If these boys knowingly, maliciously, removed her clothing and photographed her, they can be brought up on felony charges … assuming the photos are brought into evidence…. Do you know who they are?”

“The boys?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Not exactly … I mean, I know the guy who posted the pictures on MyPage, but that doesn’t mean he took them…. Everyone’s saying it was football players, but nobody knows who.”

“Well,” my father said dryly, “
somebody
knows. It’s just a matter of finding out … asking around.”

“Jeff.” My mother was shaking her head.

“What?”

“Alexa doesn’t need to be dragged into this—”

“I’m not
dragging her
into anything.”

“You’re not a private investigator.”

“I know that, Laine. I’m merely a concerned parent who happens to possess a certain amount of legal expertise. Expertise that might prove seminal in this particular case. All I would need to do to get the ball rolling is put in a call to Frank at the station and—”

“Jeff.”

“What?”

“You will do no such thing! Unless Taylor’s parents specifically ask you for legal counsel—”

“Hey,” I said, pushing my chair back from the table and springing to a stand. “Is that a car door I hear? I think Ruthie’s home!” Before my parents could launch back in, I made my escape.

I had not, in fact, heard a car door, but when I stepped out on the porch I
did
see a green Honda parked in the driveway. It wasn’t Ruthie’s car. It wasn’t a car I’d ever seen before. However, my sister
was
in the passenger seat and—as far as I could tell from my particular vantage point—she was making out like crazy with the driver.

Whaaat???

I pinched myself—not just once, but twice—to make sure I was really seeing this. It didn’t occur to me to look away and give them some privacy. I was too shocked.
How could this have happened? How could I not have known that my sister was macking with some strange boy?

What I did know—when Ruthie finally stepped out of the car and started loping toward the house with her trombone—was that she looked happy. She didn’t even seem annoyed that I’d been spying. She just smiled and said—casual as can be—“Hey.”

My jaw dropped a foot. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What?”

I gestured to the spot where the car had been. “
What
was
that
?”

“That was Carter Benson.”

“Carter Benson…” I repeated. “Carter Benson…” The name sounded familiar. “Wait—Carter Benson the
soccer
player
?”

“Well, I wouldn’t define him that way, but yes, he plays soccer. He also plays the French horn.”

“He doesn’t just
play
soccer, Ruthie. He’s, like,
phenomenal
.” I knew this because Kendall and Rae had gone to soccer camp last summer and Carter Benson had been there. They hadn’t shut up about him for weeks. “Carter Benson is your
boyfriend
?”

Ruthie shook her head slightly. “I’m not a fan of labeling relationships … but Carter is a
boy
and he’s my
friend
and we’ve been hanging out for the past couple of weeks, so…” She smiled. “Call it whatever you want.”

The past couple of weeks?
Weeks?

I stared at my sister in disbelief. “How could you not tell me?”

She shrugged. “You never asked.”

I pressed the palm of my hand to my forehead, still trying to process this information.

“Anyway, it’s not like he’s the first guy I’ve ever been with.”

“What?”

“Please,” Ruthie said, rolling her eyes slightly. “Why do you think I keep going back to music camp? The institutional cooking?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“Speaking of which,” Ruthie said, “what’s for dinner? I’m starving.” Then, “Hellooo?”

“Huh?” I snapped back to reality.

“What did Mom make for dinner?”

“Oh. Steak … But I wouldn’t go in there yet. She and Dad are having one of their arguments.”

“What about?”

“Taylor and the photos. Dad’s going off … something about voyeurism and malicious intent and how Taylor has a case … and Mom’s trying to talk him down from the ledge.”

“Oh, those two.” Ruthie shook her head.

“I know. They’re so annoying.”

“No—they’re perfect for each other.”

“Please,” I said.

“Dad’s the fiery, passionate one, and Mom’s the voice of reason.”

“
Mom’s
the voice of reason? … No way.”

“Oh, yes, she is,” Ruthie insisted. “Dad gets heated up, and she cools his fevered brow.”

“Oh my God,” I moaned.

“What?”

“Have you gone completely mental?”

All she did was smile. “Opposites attract, you know. It’s a tale as old as time.”

A scene from
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
popped into my head. My father made me watch it once, and it was a terrible movie, but it seemed as good an explanation as any for Ruthie’s bizarre behavior.

“Who are you,” I demanded, “and what have you done with my sister?”